gladness that bubbled up the instant pressure was removed. She spoke
of little but our last trip over this same road, and, as we passed
objects on the way, told me of what Brandon had said at this place
and that. She laughed and dimpled exquisitely in relating how she had
deliberately made opportunities for him to flatter her, until, at
last, he smiled in her face and told her she was the most beautiful
creature living, but that "after all, 'beauty was as beauty did!'"
"That made me angry," said she. "I pouted for a while, and, two or
three times, was on the point of dismissing him, but thought better of
it and asked him plainly wherein I did so much amiss. Then what do you
think the impudent fellow said?"
"I cannot guess."
"He said: 'Oh, there is so much it would take a lifetime to tell it.'
"This made me furious, but I could not answer, and a moment later he
said: 'Nevertheless I should be only too glad to undertake the task.'
"The thought never occurred to either of us then that he would be
taken at his word. Bold? I should think he was; I never saw anything
like it! I have not told you a tenth part of what he said to me that
day; he said anything he wished, and it seemed that I could neither
stop him nor retaliate. Half the time I was angry and half the time
amused, but by the time we reached Windsor there never was a girl more
hopelessly and desperately in love than Mary Tudor." And she laughed
as if it were a huge joke on Mary.
She continued: "That day settled matters with me for all time. I don't
know how he did it. Yes I do...." and she launched forth into an
account of Brandon's perfections, which I found somewhat dull, and so
would you.
We remained a day or two at Windsor, and then, over the objections of
our chaperons, moved on to Berkeley Castle, where Margaret of Scotland
was spending the summer.
We had another beautiful ride up the dear old Thames to Berkeley, but
Mary had grown serious and saw none of it.
On the afternoon of the appointed day, the princess suggested a
hawking party, and we set out in the direction of the rendezvous. Our
party consisted of myself, three other gentlemen and three ladies
besides Mary. Jane did not go; I was afraid to trust her. She wept,
and, with difficulty, forced herself to say something about a
headache, but the rest of the inmates of the castle of course had no
thought that possibly they were taking their last look upon Mary
Tudor.
Think who this girl was we were running away with! What reckless fools
we were not to have seen the utter hopelessness, certain failure, and
deadly peril of our act; treason black as Plutonian midnight. But
Providence seems to have an especial care for fools, while wise men
are left to care for themselves, and it does look as if safety lies in
folly.
We rode on and on, and although I took two occasions, in the presence
of others, to urge Mary to return, owing to the approach of night and
threatened rain, she took her own head, as everybody knew she always
would, and continued the hunt.
Just before dark, as we neared the rendezvous, Mary and I managed to
ride ahead of the party quite a distance. At last we saw a heron rise,
and the princess uncapped her hawk.
"This is my chance," she said; "I will run away from you now and lose
myself; keep them off my track for five minutes and I shall be safe.
Good-bye, Edwin; you and Jane are the only persons I regret to leave.
I love you as my brother and sister. When we are settled in New Spain
we will have you both come to us. Now, Edwin, I shall tell you
something: don't let Jane put you off any longer. She loves you; she
told me so. There! Good-bye, my friend; kiss her a thousand times for
me." And she flew her bird and galloped after it at headlong speed.
As I saw the beautiful young form receding from me, perhaps forever,
the tears stood in my eyes, while I thought of the strong heart that
so unfalteringly braved such dangers and was so loyal to itself and
daring for its love. She had shown a little feverish excitement for a
day or two, but it was the fever of anticipation, not of fear or
hesitancy.
Soon the princess was out of sight, and I waited for the others to
overtake me. When they came up I was greeted in chorus: "Where is the
princess?" I said she had gone off with her hawk, and had left me to
bring them after her. I held them talking while I could, and when we
started to follow took up the wrong scent. A short ride made this
apparent, when I came in for my full share of abuse and ridicule, for
I had led them against their judgment. I was credited with being a
blockhead, when in fact they were the dupes.
We rode hurriedly back to the point of Mary's departure and wound our
horns lustily, but my object had been accomplished, and I knew that
within twenty minutes from the time I last saw her, she would be with
Brandon, on the road to Bristol, gaining on any pursuit we could make
at the rate of three miles for two. We scoured the forest far and
near, but of course found no trace. After a time rain set in and one
of the gentlemen escorted the ladies home, while three of us remained
to prowl about the woods and roads all night in a soaking drizzle. The
task was tiresome enough for me, as it lacked motive; and when we rode
into Berkeley Castle next day, a sorrier set of bedraggled,
rain-stained, mud-covered knights you never saw. You may know the
castle was wild with excitement. There were all sorts of conjectures,
but soon we unanimously concluded it had been the work of highwaymen,
of whom the country was full, and by whom the princess had certainly
been abducted.
The chaperons forgot their gout and each other, and Jane, who was the
most affected of all, had a genuine excuse for giving vent to her
grief and went to bed--by far the safest place for her.
What was to be done? First we sent a message to the king, who would
probably have us all flayed alive--a fear which the chaperons shared
to the fullest extent. Next, an armed party rode back to look again
for Mary, and, if possible, rescue her.
The fact that I had been out the entire night before, together with
the small repute in which I was held for deeds of arms, excused me
from taking part in this bootless errand, so again I profited by the
small esteem in which I was held. I say I profited, for I stayed at
the castle with Jane, hoping to find my opportunity in the absence of
everybody else. All the ladies but Jane had ridden out, and the
knights who had been with me scouring the forest were sleeping, since
they had not my incentive to remain awake. They had no message to
deliver; no duty to perform for an absent friend. A thousand! Only
think of it! I wished it had been a million, and so faithful was I to
my trust that I swore in my soul I would deliver them, every one.
And Jane loved me! No more walking on the hard, prosaic earth now;
from this time forth I would fly; that was the only sensible method of
locomotion. Mary had said: "She told me so." Could it really be true?
You will at once see what an advantage this bit of information was to
me.
I hoped that Jane would wish to see me to talk over Mary's escape--so
I sent word to her that I was waiting, and she quickly enough
recovered her health and came down. I suggested that we walk out to a
secluded little summer-house by the river, and Jane was willing. Ah!
my opportunity was here at last.
She found her bonnet, and out we went. What an enchanting walk was
that, and how rich is a man who has laid up such treasures of memory
to grow the sweeter as he feeds upon them. A rich memory is better
than hope, for it lasts after fruition, and serves us at a time when
hope has failed and fruition is but--a memory. Ah! how we cherish it
in our hearts, and how it comes at our beck and call to thrill us
through and through and make us thank God that we have lived, and
wonder in our hearts why he has given poor undeserving us so much.
After we arrived at the summer-house, Jane listened, half the time in
tears, while I told her all about Mary's flight.
Shall I ever forget that summer day? A sweet briar entwined our
enchanted bower, and, when I catch its scent even now, time-vaulting
memory carries me back, making years seem as days, and I see it all as
I saw the light of noon that moment--and all was Jane. The softly
lapping river, as it gently sought the sea, sang in soothing cadence
of naught but Jane; the south wind from his flowery home breathed
zephyr-voiced her name again, and, as it stirred the rustling leaves
on bush and tree, they whispered back the same sweet strain; and
every fairy voice found its echo in my soul; for there it was as 'twas
with me, "Jane! Jane! Jane!" I have heard men say they would not live
their lives over and take its meager grains of happiness, in such
infinite disproportion to its grief and pain, but, as for me, thanks
to one woman, I almost have the minutes numbered all along the way,
and know them one from the other; and when I sit alone to dream, and
live again some portion of the happy past, I hardly know what time to
choose or incident to dwell upon, my life is so much crowded with them
all. Would I live again my life? Aye, every moment except perhaps when
Jane was ill--and therein even was happiness, for what a joy there was
at her recovery. I do not even regret that it is closing; it would be
ungrateful; I have had so much more than my share that I simply fall
upon my knees and thank God for what He has given.
Jane's whole attitude toward me was changed, and she seemed to cling
to me in a shy, unconscious manner, that was sweet beyond the naming,
as the one solace for all her grief.
After I had answered all her questions, and had told her over and over
again every detail of Mary's flight, and had assured her that the
princess was, at that hour, breasting the waves with Brandon, on their
high road to paradise, I thought it time to start myself in the same
direction and to say a word in my own behalf. So I spoke very freely
and told Jane what I felt and what I wanted.
"Oh! Sir Edwin," she responded, "let us not think of anything but my
mistress. Think of the trouble she is in."
"No! no! Jane; Lady Mary is out of her trouble by now, and is as happy
as a lark, you may be sure. Has she not won everything her heart
longed for? Then let us make our own paradise, since we have helped
them make theirs. You have it, Jane, just within your lips; speak the
word and it will change everything--if you love me, and I know you
do."
Jane's head was bowed and she remained silent.
Then I told her of Lady Mary's message, and begged, if she would not
speak in words what I so longed to hear, she would at least tell it by
allowing me to deliver only one little thousandth part of the message
Mary had sent; but she drew away and said she would return to the
castle if I continued to behave in that manner. I begged hard, and
tried to argue the point, but logic seems to lose its force in such a
situation, and all I said availed nothing. Jane was obdurate, and was
for going back at once. Her persistence was beginning to look like
obstinacy, and I soon grew so angry that I asked no permission, but
delivered Mary's message, or a good part of it, at least, whether she
would or no, and then sat back and asked her what she was going to do
about it.
Poor little Jane thought she was undone for life. She sat there half
pouting, half weeping, and said she could do nothing about it; that
she was alone now, and if I, her only friend, would treat her that
way, she did not know where to look.
"Where to look?" I demanded. "Look _here_, Jane, here; you might as
well understand, first as last, that I will not be trifled with
longer, and that I intend to continue treating you that way as long as
we both live. I have determined not to permit you to behave as you
have for so long; for I know you love me. You have half told me so a
dozen times, and even your half words are whole truths; there is not a
fraction of a lie in you. Besides, Mary told me that you told her so."
"She did not tell you that?"
"Yes; upon my knightly honor." Of course there was but one answer to
this--tears. I then brought the battle to close quarters at once, and,
with my arm uninterrupted at my lady's waist, asked:
"Did you not tell her so? I know you will speak nothing but the truth.
Did you not tell her? Answer me, Jane." The fair head nodded as she
whispered between the hands that covered her face:
"Yes; I--I--d-did;" and I--well, I delivered the rest of Mary's
message, and that, too, without a protest from Jane.
Truthfulness is a pretty good thing after all.
So Jane was conquered at last, and I heaved a sigh as the battle
ended, for it had been a long, hard struggle.
I asked Jane when we should be married, but she said she could not
think of that now--not until she knew that Mary was safe; but she
would promise to be my wife sometime. I told her that her word was as
good as gold to me; and so it was and always has been; as good as fine
gold thrice refined. I then told her I would bother her no more about
it, now that I was sure of her, but when she was ready she should tell
me of her own accord and make my happiness complete. She said she
would, and I told her I believed her and was satisfied. I did,
however, suggest that the intervening time would be worse than
wasted--happiness thrown right in the face of Providence, as it
were--and begged her not to waste any more than necessary; to which
she seriously and honestly answered that she would not.
We went back to the castle, and as we parted Jane said timidly: "I am
glad I told you, Edwin; glad it is over."
She had evidently dreaded it; but--I was glad, too; very glad. Then I
went to bed.
_CHAPTER XVII_
_The Elopement_
Whatever the king might think, I knew Lord Wolsey would quickly enough
guess the truth when he heard that the princess was missing, and would
have a party in pursuit. The runaways, however, would have at least
twenty-four hours the start, and a ship leaves no tracks. When Mary
left me she was perhaps two-thirds of a league from the rendezvous,
and night was rapidly falling. As her road lay through a dense forest
all the way, she would have a dark, lonely ride of a few minutes, and
I was somewhat uneasy for that part of the journey. It had been agreed
that if everything was all right at the rendezvous, Mary should turn
loose her horse, which had always been stabled at Berkeley Castle and
would quickly trot home. To further emphasize her safety a thread
would be tied in his forelock. The horse took his time in returning,
and did not arrive until the second morning after the flight, but when
he came I found the thread, and, unobserved, removed it. I quickly
took it to Jane, who has it yet, and cherishes it for the mute message
of comfort it brought her. In case the horse should not return, I was
to find a token in a hollow tree near the place of meeting; but the
thread in the forelock told us our friends had found each other.
When we left the castle, Mary wore under her riding habit a suit of
man's attire, and, as we rode along, she would shrug her shoulders and
laugh as if it were a huge joke; and by the most comical little
pantomime, call my attention to her unusual bulk. So when she found
Brandon, the only change necessary to make a man of her was to throw
off the riding habit and pull on the jack-boots and slouch hat, both
of which Brandon had with him.
They wasted no time you may be sure, and were soon under way. In a few
minutes they picked up the two Bristol men who were to accompany them,
and, when night had fairly fallen, left the by-paths and took to the
main road leading from London to Bath and Bristol. The road was a fair
one; that is, it was well defined and there was no danger of losing
it; in fact, there was more danger of losing one's self in its
fathomless mud-holes and quagmires. Brandon had recently passed over
it twice, and had made mental note of the worst places, so he hoped to
avoid them.
Soon the rain began to fall in a soaking drizzle; then the lamps of
twilight went out, and even the shadows of the night were lost among
themselves in blinding darkness. It was one of those black nights fit
for witch traveling; and, no doubt, every witch in England was out
brewing mischief. The horses' hoofs sucked and splashed in the mud
with a sound that Mary thought might be heard at Land's End; and the
hoot of an owl, now and then disturbed by a witch, would strike upon
her ear with a volume of sound infinitely disproportionate to the size
of any owl she had ever seen or dreamed of before.
Brandon wore our cushion, the great cloak, and had provided a like one
of suitable proportions for the princess. This came in good play, as
her fine gentleman's attire would be but poor stuff to turn the water.
The wind, which had arisen with just enough force to set up a dismal
wail, gave the rain a horizontal slant and drove it in at every
opening. The flaps of the comfortable great cloak blew back from
Mary's knees, and she felt many a chilling drop through her fine new
silk trunks that made her wish for buckram in their place. Soon the
water began to trickle down her legs and find lodgment in the
jack-boots, and as the rain and wind came in tremulous little whirs,
she felt wretched enough--she who had always been so well sheltered
from every blast. Now and then mud and water would fly up into her
face--striking usually in the eyes or mouth--and then again her horse
would stumble and almost throw her over his head, as he sank, knee
deep, into some unexpected hole. All of this, with the thousand and
one noises that broke the still worse silence of the inky night soon
began to work upon her nerves and make her fearful. The road was full
of dangers aside from stumbling horses and broken necks, for many
were the stories of murder and robbery committed along the route they
were traveling. It is true they had two stout men, and all were armed,
yet they might easily come upon a party too strong for them; and no
one could tell what might happen, thought the princess. There was that
pitchy darkness through which she could hardly see her horse's head--a
thing of itself that seemed to have infinite powers for mischief, and
which no amount of argument ever induced any normally constituted
woman to believe was the mere negative absence of light, and not a
terrible entity potent for all sorts of mischief. Then that wailing
howl that rose and fell betimes; no wind ever made such a noise she
felt sure. There were those shining white gleams which came from the
little pools of water on the road, looking like dead men's faces
upturned and pale; perhaps they were water and perhaps they were not.
Mary had all confidence in Brandon, but that very fact operated
against her. Having that confidence and trust in him, she felt no need
to waste her own energy in being brave; so she relaxed completely, and
had the feminine satisfaction of allowing herself to be thoroughly
frightened.
Is it any wonder Mary's gallant but womanly spirit sank low in the
face of all those terrors? She held out bravely, however, and an
occasional clasp from Brandon's hand under cover of the darkness
comforted her. When all those terrors would not suggest even a
thought of turning back, you may judge of the character of this girl
and her motive.
They traveled on, galloping when they could, trotting when they could
not gallop, and walking when they must.
At one time they thought they heard the sound of following horses, and
hastened on as fast as they dared go, until, stopping to listen and
hearing nothing, they concluded they were wrong. About eleven o'clock,
however, right out of the black bank of night in front of them they
heard, in earnest, the sucking splash of horses' hoofs. In an instant
the sound ceased and the silence was worse than the noise. The cry
"Hollo!" brought them all to a stand, and Mary thought her time had
come.
Both sides shouted, "Who comes there?" to which there was a
simultaneous and eager answer, "A friend," and each party passed its
own way, only too glad to be rid of the other. Mary's sigh of relief
could be heard above even the wind and the owls, and her heart beat as
if it had a task to finish within a certain time.
After this they rode on as rapidly as they dared, and about midnight
arrived at the inn where the relay of horses was awaiting them.
[Illustration]
The inn was a rambling old thatched-roofed structure, half mud, half
wood, and all filth. There are many inns in England that are tidy
enough, but this one was a little off the main road--selected for that
reason--and the uncleanness was not the least of Mary's trials that
hard night. She had not tasted food since noon, and felt the keen
hunger natural to youth and health such as hers, after twelve hours of
fasting and eight hours of riding. Her appetite soon overcame her
repugnance, and she ate, with a zest that was new to her, the humblest
fare that had ever passed her lips. One often misses the zest of
life's joys by having too much of them. One must want a thing before
it can be appreciated.
A hard ride of five hours brought our travelers to Bath, which place
they rode around just as the sun began to gild the tile roofs and
steeples, and another hour brought them to Bristol.
The ship was to sail at sunrise, but as the wind had died out with the
night, there was no danger of its sailing without them. Soon the gates
opened, and the party rode to the Bow and String, where Brandon had
left their chests. The men were then paid off; quick sale was made of
the horses; breakfast was served, and they started for the wharf, with
their chests following in the hands of four porters.
A boat soon took them aboard the Royal Hind, and now it looked as if
their daring scheme, so full of improbability as to seem impossible,
had really come to a successful issue.
From the beginning, I think, it had never occurred to Mary to doubt
the result. There had never been with her even a suggestion of
possible failure, unless it was that evening in our room, when,
prompted by her startled modesty, she had said she could not bear for
us to see her in the trunk hose. Now that fruition seemed about to
crown her hopes she was happy to her heart's core; and when once to
herself wept for sheer joy. It is little wonder she was happy. She was
leaving behind no one whom she loved excepting Jane, and perhaps, me.
No father nor mother; only a sister whom she barely knew, and a
brother whose treatment of her had turned her heart against him. She
was also fleeing with the one man in all the world for her, and from a
marriage that was literally worse than death.
Brandon, on the other hand, had always had more desire than hope. The
many chances against success had forced upon him a haunting sense of
certain failure, which, one would think, should have left him now. It
did not, however, and even when on shipboard, with a score of men at
the windlass ready to heave anchor at the first breath of wind, it was
as strong as when Mary first proposed their flight, sitting in the
window on his great cloak. Such were their opposite positions. Both
were without doubt, but with this difference; Mary had never doubted
success; Brandon never doubted failure. He had a keen analytical
faculty that gave him truthfully the chances for and against, and, in
this case, they were overwhelmingly unfavorable. Such hope as he had
been able to distil out of his desire was sadly dampened by an
ever-present premonition of failure, which he could not entirely
throw off. Too keen an insight for the truth often stands in a man's
way, and too clear a view of an overwhelming obstacle is apt to
paralyze effort. Hope must always be behind a hearty endeavor.
Our travelers were, of course, greatly in need of rest; so Mary went
to her room, and Brandon took a berth in the cabin set apart for the
gentlemen.
They had both paid for their passage, although they had enlisted and
were part of the ship's company. They were not expected to do sailor's
work, but would be called upon in case of fighting to do their part at
that. Mary was probably as good a fighter, in her own way, as one
could find in a long journey, but how she was to do her part with
sword and buckler Brandon did not know. That, however, was a bridge to
be crossed when they should come to it.